The Hero Gotham Deserves
by Curly McJimbo
Summary: Minutes after saving Jackson, almost everyone had left the abandoned warehouse, but Stiles was still there, with three months' worth of panic, fear and self-loathing for company.


_Warnings - Panic Attack. Spoilers for seasons one and two. Pre-Slash._

_Disclaimer - Not mine._

_I've based this on my own memories of having panic attacks when I was younger, but everyone experiences them differently. _

_This occurs during 2x12, directly after Jackson is cured. Spoilers up to and including 2x12. _

* * *

Stiles' hand was pulsing.

Not in any sort of magical manner – though, let's face it, that wouldn't have been a surprise, not anymore – but in a very human manner, skin bubbling and shrinking and expanding without ever actually moving at all. The car keys in his palm felt too big and too small, all at once, as if the hand was growing around them and shrinking back in. Stiles shoved the keys deep into his pocket, ripping his hand from the confine of the fabric as soon as possible. His eyes were shut, brow furrowed as he fought to breathe.

He flexed the fingers in his right hand, letting them stretch and spread until the skin groaned under the strain, before curling them back in, clenching into a fist so tight the knuckles creaked. Stiles repeated the swift spread and harsh clench seven times, before taking a deep breath and starting again with the other hand, then letting both hands clench and spread in unison.

Everyone had left. Lydia with Jackson, Scott with Isaac, the Argents together, the Hales together. Everyone went with someone, but Stiles was still there, alone, with three months' worth of panic, fear and self-loathing for company. The emotions had built up into a cacophony of noise, the likes of which Stiles had not felt for three years, six months and 21 days, since the month after his mother died, since everything had been suppressed, for his father, for Scott, for his sanity.

"Stiles." The voice was muffled by the sound of his own blood, pumping through his ears, but Stiles still knew who it belonged to. The man was behind, couldn't see his face, and so Stiles stayed still, leaving his eyes tightly shut as he tried to breathe. So big bad alpha Derek Hale remained; it didn't make a difference. Didn't make Stiles feel less alone.

This was why Stiles could not be a hero. The twist in his stomach as he fought to regain control of his own body. The almost stabbing pain that curled along his spine, spreading from between his lungs, right beside his heart. His senses were muffled from fear, the exact opposite of the heightened senses of his friends.

"Stiles." The voice was closer, but Stiles ignored it once more, focus returning to his hands. He pressed his middle fingernails into his thumbs lightly at first, then harder, feeling the crescent nails leave a mark in the soft pads. He kept pressing, the bite of nail in skin giving him his very own anchor, something to draw focus away from the crushing sense of entrapment, the _oh god I'm going to die in this warehouse and no one will stop Dad eating burgers or call Scott a dumbass or tell Erica she was perfect before the bite or help Jackson stop being a monumental idiot or look after Isaac or -_

His thoughts stuttered and ceased as hands wrapped around his wrists. The grip was painful; Derek's fingers were practically crushing his wrists into submission, and Stiles only fought for a moment before letting his middle fingers drop uselessly. Derek stopped the hands from digging rivulets, froze the twitching and the flexing and the stretching, but that's all he could do. He couldn't slow Stiles' racing heart, or take away the painful spirals of panic that were pulsing through his system. Derek was speaking, but Stiles didn't have the energy to listen, instead focussing on his own heartbeat and trying not to feel encased in Derek's hands.

"Stiles!" The vice on his left wrist disappeared, and he gasped air greedily at the sensation of freedom. A hand came down upon his shoulder heavily, and his eyes sprung open at the force of it, blinking frantically. His eyes scanned Derek, who looked unruffled, yet softer than usual. "What do you need?" The words were slow and considered, but they sounded far too fast.

"I need…" Stiles started, words jumbling into one. "I need to go home." Derek seemed to understand, nodding, taking the hand from Stiles' shoulder and holding it out, palm up. Stiles looked down at his right hand instead, suddenly very aware that it was still Derek's captive, though the grip was far looser than before, loose enough that he could shake it off, if he really wanted to.

The hand squeezed slightly, and Stiles looked up, where Derek was staring impassively. "Your keys. Give me your keys."

"I said I need to go home." Stiles repeated, words tumbling from his lips before he'd fully formed the phrase. "I need my keys to get home."

Derek didn't elaborate, showed no recognition that Stiles had spoken at all, just waited impatiently for the keys. It said something about Stiles' mood that he didn't kick and scream, didn't even huff, just ripped his hand from Derek's and grabbed the keys, thrusting them towards the werewolf.

Derek led him to the car, passenger side, unfamiliar, and time seemed to spin as the werewolf rushed the car off the property. Every inch they put between the jeep and the warehouse seemed to reduce the pressure on Stiles' chest, though, and eventually fear was replaced by stubborn, unshed tears. He wouldn't let them fall, refused to let them drip down his face, but Derek could smell the salt water, Stiles knew.

Instead of the mocking or anger Stiles expected, he felt a strong hand come up to rest on his neck. He flinched, remembering being in a very similar position before that ended with his forehead meeting steering wheel, but the pressure never came, and slowly Stiles stopped waiting for the attack. The hand was heavy but unrestrictive, resting on his neck as opposed to grabbing or controlling, and Stiles eventually relaxed into it.

Stiles slowly began to realise that Derek was breathing heavily, far heavier than usual. Stiles stared, watching Derek's profile as the werewolf remained stoic in the driver's seat, eyes firmly on the road. The only time he'd ever heard Derek breathe like this was when he was huffing, but this was different, slow and rhythmic.

It took Stiles longer than he was willing to admit to realise that his own breathing had slowed to match Derek's, mimicking the rhythm subconsciously. "Is that an alpha thing?" He asked, voice no longer rushed, but not exactly normal, either. "The breathing."

"I don't know." Derek replied. "Laura used to do it for me, after Kate."

The car was silent after that. Stiles didn't even comment when they passed the turn off for his house, heading towards Derek's den instead. Though Stiles had asked for home, what he had meant to say was 'not here'. Home, under the usually comforting eye of his father, would be oppressive, heavy. Though the spiralling panic had subsided, he felt weak and defensive; yelling at his father for caring would just make him feel worse.

The drive to the subway station was easier than driving to the Hale house, not as off the beaten track, and Stiles could have fallen asleep were it not for the weight of Derek's hand on his neck, which only moved when he needed to change gears. They finally pulled up beside the station, but Derek made no move to exit the jeep, so Stiles stayed put.

Stiles waited, watching Derek mull over words. The werewolf rubbed his free hand across his face tiredly. "You're not like us." Derek started, before shaking his head and specifying. "Werewolves. We aren't immortal, but we're not as fragile as humans either." His fingers curled around Stiles' neck, tracing a vein upwards to let his thumb rest over the bruise left by Gerard. "It's easy to forget that you have more to fear. More reason to believe you're already dead." His gaze moved from Stiles' injury to Stiles' eyes, staring him down with wolfish intensity. "You're a hero, Stiles."

Stiles frowned, looking from Derek to the dashboard and back again. Watching this beast of a man, who had fought hunters, werewolves and a giant lizard without batting an eye try and tell him, benchwarmer Stiles Stilinski, that he was a hero? Almost comical. "Heroes don't have pathetic panic attacks that make sourwolves pity them."

"Heroes come in all forms." Derek countered. "And I don't pity you."

"A hero would get the girl." It slipped out unintentionally, but once it was there, Stiles couldn't take it back, letting the words hang in the air.

"You're better than Jackson, that's why she doesn't want you." It was blunt, and Stiles huffed. "She wants someone in pieces, who she can put back together. She wants a Kanima. You're too functioning for her to love."

Stiles coughed out a laugh, head falling forward as Derek's hand rolls to cup the nape of his neck once more. "Are you saying I'm the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs?"

"Maybe Batman deserves a better city." Derek muttered, finally sliding out of the jeep. Stiles followed, slipping out of the passenger side and heading into the abandoned station.

The silence was comfortable, the pair settling into the subway car. Stiles glanced at his watch, brows raising as he realised it had hit 5am. He knew time moved differently during a panic attack, but losing over an hour to fear was new.

The silence was not uncomfortable, and Stiles let his eyes drift shut, floating in and out of consciousness as he pleased. Silence never lasted long in Beacon Hills, though, and soon enough Stiles jumped as the warehouse door screeched open, heart hammering in his chest.

Isaac didn't even blink at Stiles' presence as he entered the subway car, just raised his eyebrows at Derek in amusement, and swung into the seat beside the human, clasping a hand to his shoulder supportively. Stiles returned the gesture, Derek watching as the pair interacted silently, releasing shoulders and shuffling down in seats.

Isaac was twitchy, ruffled by the lack of Boyd and Erica, and he didn't sit still for long, dragging his phone from his pocket and playing snake. Stiles watched over his shoulder for a few minutes, before the repetitive sounds and shapes made his body tense again, Isaac looking across inquisitively at the change in Stiles' mood, and pocketing the phone after Derek growled. The silence stretched further, Stiles slowly relaxing into it once more and drifting off.

Suddenly, both werewolves twitched, heads spinning to face northeast. "What?" Stiles asked, as Isaac stood rapidly.

"Peter is calling." Derek responded, Isaac already waiting impatiently at the door to make their way towards their pack-mate. Derek was still, though, staring intently at Stiles. "I can stay."

"No you can't." Stiles replied, stretching up to a stand. "I'm meant to be meeting Scott for Lacrosse practice in an hour or so anyway." Stiles tried to shove his way past the Alpha, but found himself pinned to the wall instead, softer than usual but still with force. Derek leaned in, bare inches between them, and Stiles struggled to maintain eye contact, to not appear weak after everything that had passed.

"Without Allison, your pack is small." _If you were with me, your pack would be big, strong._ Derek doesn't need to say it. The undertone hung heavily in the air, presenting Stiles with a solution, a source of strength.

"Not my call, Derek." Stiles shrugged, smiling sardonically at Derek. "You said it yourself; Scott's my Alpha."

"I was wrong. Scott's a Beta through and through." Derek retorted, and Stiles frowned unsurely. "Erica said it best; you make a pretty good Batman."

"Batman and Robin did quite fine alone."

"They did better with the Justice League." If he'd been less tired, Stiles would have enjoyed the fact that Derek was a closet geek more. As it was, he just countered Derek's argument.

"Robin didn't join the Justice League." Derek merely shrugged, eyebrows suggesting what his lips would not.

"Derek." Isaac called from the door, looking at the pair with amusement. Derek finally pushed away, giving Stiles space as he stalked towards the door.

Stiles stayed, back to the wall for a few moments longer. By the time he'd found his wits, the werewolves were nearly at the Camero, but he ran out anyway, calling to the pair. "I'll think on it." Stiles promised, nodding when the wolves turned to face him. "But Robin will be joining me."

The pair of werewolves exchanged a glance, before turning back to Stiles, smirks on their faces. "Give us a call when you decide to join us." Isaac replied, before the pair climbed into the car and sped off into the night.


End file.
